Throw away the key
by UnluckyAmulet
Summary: You cannot repeat the past, but you do carry it with you. Oneshot.


Disclaimer: I do not own either the book or the film of The Great Gatsby.

I watched the movie again with a friend and I suddenly got inspired. Moreso Movie!Daisy than Book!Daisy.

Enjoy!

* * *

As a girl, Daisy dreamt of being swept away by a white knight, or perhaps a prince, because she was raised to believe that she was a princess and that as long as she married the right boy, life would be a fairytale.

These days, Daisy realizes that those stories are always darker and more complicated than you remember them.

Somehow, she thought it would be different in Jay's world. She recalls the way a cool, pleasant breeze licked over her hot skin as Jay kissed her feverishly, as though something terrible would happen if he did not stop. The curtains billowed around them as they rolled around on the bed together, expensive sheets tangling around their bare legs. She feels a strange, giddy sensation, bubbles rushing through her bloodstream. She has not felt this way since she was a girl, and she has not felt like a girl in a very long time.

In Jay's world, everything is perfect. Skies throb and glow with fireworks, sparkles fading into the blackness with the choreography of synchronized swimmers. Women wrapped in sequins, taffeta, silk, they flit around parties with shrieking laughter. Men in suits grin and drink, eyes wandering to each sparkling figure that breezes past. It rains glitter and sequins, anything you could want at the touch of a button. Lying with Jay, if Daisy closes her eyes, she can almost pretend it's all real. Pretends that it can last.

In Daisy's world, nothing ever goes according to plan.

Jay is yet again pulled away from her by the gravel-voiced butler, and as soon as the doors behind them close, Daisy slaps a hand over her mouth, harder than needed, and rushes to the bathroom to be sick. Silk puddles around her knees as she retches, the taste of olives sticking to the back of her throat. She leans back, tilts her head up to the ceiling. _Pregnant._

A mother always knows.

* * *

Jay is dead.

Nick bleats over the phone, "_Please, please!" _and even though he cannot see her, Daisy shakes her head. _Oh Nicky..._

East Egg vanishes in a blur, the eyes from the billboard watching Daisy. It knows, the eyes see all, an acidic blue that stirs an ache deep in her chest. Daisy knows that until they have completely shaken free of New York, she will not be able to shake free the sensation of eyes on her back. She wonders if Jay felt much when he died; the papers said he was shot in the heart, whether or not his last thoughts were of her. She imagines his lips parting, _Daisy_. She cannot cry, with Tom's presence sitting across from her, ominous as a storm cloud, so Daisy bows her head and pretends to doze off. As usual, her husband does not notice the tears that seep out beneath her eyelids, clinging to her eyelashes like wet diamonds. Pammy rests her head on her mother's stomach, yawning, and Daisy is gripped with the sudden fear that the girl can somehow hear what lies beneath.

But Pammy merely falls asleep beside her, with Tom talking to the driver as though nothing has really changed.

Daisy looks at the sky and feels cold and empty.

Days slip through her fingers as their new house is set up. Staff mill about, carrying furniture, cleaning and dusting while Tom vanishes out into town, Pammy is swept away by a nursemaid and Daisy is left alone in this sumptuous palace.

She desperately wants a drink.

But as she holds up dress after dress to her body, the fabric soft against her skin, she knows that she will have to tell Tom soon enough. For now, she has been able to hide her pregnancy with billowing gowns and excuses herself from the dinner table with mysterious headaches. But soon she will begin to swell and even Tom will notice a wife that has doubled in size.

Daisy strokes her belly and glances out of the window, expecting to see the bay for a moment and swallowing a lump in her throat when she remembers.

But if she has learnt one thing, it's that it's never good to dwell on the past.

She shuts the curtains.

* * *

After practicing her smile in the mirror, Daisy puts on her newest dress, slicks lipstick across her grinning lips and pours herself a flute of champagne for courage, and glides down the stairs, hoping she looks like a movie star and not like a little girl playing dress up. She throws out her arms and cries, "Darling, I'm _pregnant_!" as though this is what they have been waiting for all this time, as if it was a gift rather than a secret.

And Tom tells her it's wonderful, his eyes not quite level with her own, and Daisy knows, she knows, and that her secret will be safe. Because Tom likes to be the winner, so he will not even entertain the possibility that somehow, Gatsby has not been quite as minor an inconvenience as first thought.

Daisy hopes it's a girl, because a boy might be a tricky, if he ends up looking not quite right. Tom is many things, but stupid has never been one of them.

_I'd like to know just who this Gatsby really is._

Tom's lips are hot on her neck as he wraps his arms around her from behind. Although he still vanishes from the house frequently, the memory of Gatsby still lingers in the back of his mind. He knows that, due to his carelessness, his own wife was almost stolen from him, right under his nose. Daisy leans back into her husband's chest, and wonders if he ever thinks about Myrtle. The woman's face will haunt them forever- Daisy remembering a lips parted in a scream, Tom remembering a deathly pale face and blood smeared across her cheek.

Between them, the baby kicks, and a bittersweet smile dances across Daisy's lips as she fingers the string of pearls draped around her neck.

When the baby is born, she looks down at the face with eyes those same, ocean-dark eyes, nothing like Tom's icy, pale gaze.

"And we lived happily ever after," Daisy murmurs, bending down and kissing the child's forehead.

That time, she almost sounds like she means it.


End file.
